I’m broke again. There are only two things wrong with money— too much or too little. And here I am down at the too little stage again, and you can't live on luck.
My mobile phone rings,
hello, I answer,
Henry baby, how ya doin?
It’s Rico Shoe, the publisher of The Headbangers Ball, a hip New York rag,
I’m busted, Rico,
Well, it’s your lucky day my man, I've transferred 2 grand to your bank account for a story, 10 pages or so, email it to me.
You’re a lifesaver Rico, love ya baby.
Henry, write freely, a dirty philosophic bit.
You got it, Rico.
Dirty philosophic? What the fuck is that, maybe Rico Shoe read
F*ck sEx, or Cunnilingus is Dangerous.
I'll write a story about the day, spontaneous prose.
I step into the shower, and slip, bruising my shin, getting out and walking it off like a soccer player.
Slipping in the tub is a sign of things to come.
Sitting on the bed in front of a mirror, I braid my hair like Sitting Bull. Among Indians, long free flowing hair represents freedom of life. That's what I want, independence from the need for money, that's a laugh.
Dressed for the beach in cutoffs, a Hawaiin shirt, and rubber slippers, I step outside, locking the door to keep the thieves out, I don’t want any homeless bums getting at my stash of beer and whiskey.
In minutes I’m sitting at Frank’s Bar, on Duvall, drinking 3 Boilermakers, dropping shots of whiskey into mugs of beer.
I’m no Charles Bukowski but I love beer and whiskey.
Have you heard people say?
Nobody gets in fistfights or robs banks on weed.
Well, how the hell do they know? Robbers and brawlers can be on anything, most likely Methamphetamine.
Frank asks,
what you up to, Henry?
I’m gonna write a story on the day's happenings for a New York rag, whatever comes down the track.
You're quite the philosopher, Henry.
Frank, a writer needs to be inventive.
I pay for the drinks and walk to Higgs Beach, a nude beach, getting naked like everyone else and thinking,
people come in all shapes and sizes. There are fat and thin folks, women with boobs the size of basketballs, ladies who have huge nipples but no chest. Thin guys with wrinkled skin that are hung like burros, and fat guys who don't have cocks at all.
I’m thin, nice to look at, but not hung, I don't like paying for dates.
I rub sunblock on my body, and sit in the sand, smoking a joint and trancing out on the mind-blowing teal color of the Sand Keys Channel.
Hot, I run towards the sea, taking a spill in the sand, it’s a dead giveaway that I’m soused. The nudists think it's funny.
Standing up, I give it another shot, diving into the breaking waves and swimming out far enough to paddle in place, rubbernecking like a fool for a Great White to show and gobble me up like an Hors D'oeuvre. It’s the fucking pot, it makes you paranoid.
I feel tiny fish, Gara rufa, nibbling on my legs.
Wading ashore, I put my shorts and slippers on, walking south past Higgs Beach.
A pathway into the jungle triggers my attention. I walk into it foolishly without a machete.
They say there are Rattlesnakes in the bushes and poisonous trees with sap that can kill you if you brush your fingers and suck on your fingers.
Soon I’m lost, feeling like the bushes are wrapped around me like 2 giant arms.
The area is full of potential hazards, but what does me in is the large thorns of the Aurel Greenbrier bushes, puncturing my skin. At this point, I’m hurting and pissed, so I run like a maniac toward the sound of the waves and dive into the sea. The seawater absorbs the blood and stops the bleeding for a while.
Walking the shore past Higgs beach people look at me in the oddest way, like I'm a zombie.
I make my way to Key West Medical Center, walking, I hate ambulances because the drivers are uptight you're going to puke in their vehicles.
After my wounds are treated I take a cab to my bungalow. In the study, I type the day's story on my laptop and email it to Rico Shoe.
The following day Shoe calls, saying
Henry, baby, the story couldn't have been better if a Great White bit off your arm.
Ha ha, Rico, funny man, funny man.
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